The Shack Memoirs

By L.A. Hilton & Matt Rose

Matt: arrogant, bombastic bold font
Luke: cock-eyed, pretentious italicsShack

       It was during my heaviest prolonged period of alcohol consumption to date that I applied to work at Whittaker’s Sausage Shack in Guildford, Surrey. Looking back I almost can’t believe we used to drink so much. It was abhorrently impressive not just in volume but frequency – rarely were there more than 2 nights a week I could confidently remember. Hangovers were so omnipresent they were now just the everyday state of consciousness to be routinely suffocated with booze, beginning daily whenever the Sun made a suggestion it was about to start its descent. Studying English Literature at University is little more than a glorified book club, it requires none of the intense lucidity demanded by a course in Biochemistry or Equine Dentistry, in fact to reach the creative mind-set required to properly crack most literature it’s almost essential to loosen up first with a couple of stiff drinks. I used to watch in wise, tipsy amusement as the more sober, industrious students on my course would plaster the walls of their room with dry notes and facts, jacked and frazzled from pints of coffee and permanently frustrated that their essays could never seem to muster high marks; they were always too sterile and cognitive, coldly dissecting novella like a piece of toad on a microscope slide. Continue reading